oh my good morning

My across the hall neighbor has AirPort on her Mac, so when she's in I can piggyback clumsily onto the 'net from the comfort of my own little monk's cell. This morning, however, I'm sitting in the Liebling-Wood Library at the O'Neill Center, which is far smaller and less grand than the name might suggest. Boxes of books, an untidy desk, newspapers strewn across the single long table, and the framed letters announcing Tennessee's Williams' Pulitzer prize hanging carelessly off one sloped wall. Last night one of my colleagues here referred to people at a reception "walking around telling stories about when they saw dirt being invented"; this library feels at least a year older than that.

So I open my email, which only takes about a month, and there's a note from a woman I model for, indicating that she now has a web site and we should all go take a look. Ho-de-hum, I think, and click the link. Nothing of me will be there, I tell myself, because she doesn't use me as much as she does other models. Or perhaps she sells all the drawings she makes of me before they make it into shows, who knows? Imagine my surprise, then, to see that the button for the 'drawings' section, right there between 'paintings' and 'photography', prominently features my crotch.

How do you know it's yours?, I can hear you asking. I mean, the drawing starts at the navel and goes to the feet; it's not like there are any of the usual flags that make drawings of myself immediately obvious: hair, nose, tattoo.

Well, do you remember some months ago, when I was noodling around about having tried out a new, ah, pubic coiffure?

This drawing is from that time.

Dear me. I never wanted to be famous for my Brazilian.